Baby Boy
by sonsofmogh
Summary: Andromeda Tonks lost everything after the war except her infant grandson, but when he approaches adulthood, is she afraid of letting him go, of being alone, or that she didn't do enough to steer him in the right direction? Of course, children are always full of surprises.


The leaves skate across the murky waters of the pond, and Andromeda watches as the placid surface is broken by the contact. It's an uncomfortable reminder of things she can't escape. Her world was simple and smooth up until a few years before. She had Ted and Dora and all the time in the world. And then Bella came back to take everything from her that the war didn't.

All that's left is Teddy. Andromeda can't bear to call him Ted. Teddy is soft, childish, innocent - things she lost long ago. Ted had stood beside her and kept her standing in those times, but she lost him, too. Now, Andromeda has no choice but to stand tall and firm in order to lead her grandson on that same path. What she feels or who she misses is irrelevant against that responsibility.

Abandoning the autumnal afternoon for a cup of tea, Andromeda returns to peek in on Teddy, who is napping soundly in his cot. He's dreaming, she notices; his hair always turns a brilliant shade of orange when his imagination is at work. With a smile, she ruffles the fine strands and strokes them back into place. This tiny creature, so much like Dora when she was that age, possesses an enviable lack of awareness of the world into which he was born, and Andromeda vows that she will do her best to keep it that way. Teddy will not be taught to hate like she had been. There has been far too much of that already, and at such a high price. She'll be damned if her grandson is going to pay the price for someone else's arrogance. 

The cold is seeping into her bones far more brutally than it has in years past, and it is a struggle for Andromeda to push herself off the bench in the back garden. The leaves are old friends now, and it's only fitting that she sees them off before winter. They bring her peace as they softly rustle in the breeze as they have done since the first sapling sprang from the soil millennia ago.

She starts when hands fall onto her shoulders but immediately relaxes when they're accompanied by her favourite cloak and the presence of a concerned Teddy. "Gran," he says, "it's getting cold. Thought you might need something warmer."

Andromeda wants to thank him, but words aren't enough. For eighteen years, he's been her constant companion. Even while he was at Hogwarts, he never went longer than two weeks without writing. She knew his friends teased him about it, but bless his heart, he didn't care. Teddy is everything, the sum of her world and everything in it worth having, unfettered by prejudice or the classist nonsense drilled into her virtually from the womb.

_He's a man now_, she marvels. There is much of his father in him: a tall, slim frame and kind eyes, but Dora's fire and passion bubble beneath the surface, rushing from the tips of his vivid hair to the bottom of his feet that never seem to stay in one place. He is proof that nature and love are the most marvellous of engineers.

Teddy holds out his arm to help her up and escorts her back into the house. She's greeted by a cheery fire in the kitchen grate and a pot of tea on the table. He pours hers into her favourite cup, which depicts daintily painted flowers waving in a gentle breeze, and adds just the right amount of sugar and lemon. Such a good boy. He smiles widely at her nod of approval as he pours his own - cream, no sugar. They sip in silence.

Andromeda almost forgets where she is for a moment until Teddy sets his cup down and takes her free hand. "Gran, I need to talk to you about something very important."

There is an urgency in his voice, one she likens ominously to the day Ted had told her he needed to go on the run. The eventual results of that day do nothing to alleviate the concern leaching its way into her gut. Andromeda is almost certain she doesn't want to hear whatever it is Teddy's about to tell her, but it's also apparent that it's something he needs to say. She opens her mouth to ask him to proceed, but her voice is empty and her throat dry. Instead, she squeezes his hand and forces a tight smile.

He's nervous, too. His hair flashes into a bright, agitated yellow before settling into a more sedate turquoise. "I need to tell you about . . . about my work at the Ministry."

Her brow knits as she tries to puzzle out the possible meaning of Teddy's statement. He is a clerk in the Department of Magical Games and Sports and has the right number of OWLs and NEWTs to eventually climb to a very illustrious position in about ten years' time. She loves his chosen profession because he enjoys it, but also because it comes with minimal risk. The idea of wrangling Quaffles is far less terrifying than the other possibilities her mind can churn up.

When she says nothing, Teddy continues. "When I go to the Ministry each day, I don't report to Games and Sports. I only lasted a day before the paperwork drove me mad." He quirks a smile. "You know me. Can't stay still for too long."

Andromeda forgets to breathe when that flash of a grin reminds her so much of her darling Ted, but all she can think about is Dora when Teddy looks her in the eye with every ounce of seriousness he possesses. "I've been in Auror training for these past three months." He stops and looks away briefly when she gasps loudly, but his voice never falters when he says, "It's something I've always wanted to do, and I love my work."

Something wedges firmly in her chest and twists madly. An Auror. Her baby Teddy wants to be an Auror, to put himself into harm's way and put his life and limb to protect people he has never even met. Such a good boy. Such a very good boy. He is doing what he was raised to believe in, but when Andromeda tries to tell him, her tongue trips over the words and retreats back into silence.

Teddy's twice as nervous now, she can feel it. Andromeda wants so badly to say that it's all right, that she's not angry or disappointed because it's what he wants, what he needs to hear, but the mere thought of it tastes like ashes. It was the only pamphlet Teddy had brought home over spring holidays in his fifth year that she had thrown into the trash without reading. No grandson of hers was going to risk his neck and take away the last bit of Ted and Dora she had left.

He looks at her as he bites his lip. "Say something, Gran. Please."

"Did Harry put you up to this?" she snaps. "We had this discussion over two years ago, and I'm sure I made my wishes clear."

Shaking his head, Teddy says, "Actually, Harry tried to talk me out of it and damn near refused my application. He told me you didn't want me to be in a profession as dangerous as the Auror Department and threatened to tell you I'd applied. It took a lot to change his mind."

Everything in Andromeda wants to blame Harry for this catastrophe, despite Teddy's adamant absolution of his godfather. If it is Harry's fault, then she doesn't have to wrack her brain desperately to figure out what went wrong. From the day that Dora and Remus died, she has tried to instil the best of Teddy's parents into him and teach him how to look beyond preconceptions the way Ted had taught her to do so many years ago. But what if she failed? What if she has to go to bed every night, not sure whether Teddy is going to make it to Sunday tea or proudly present her with great-grandbabies because of some ridiculous quest for glory? Or, gods forbid, what if she outlives him?

Teddy pushes his chair out and kneels beside her. His forehead rests on her shoulder, and Andromeda instinctively strokes his hair, which has dulled into a pale grey. It's a colour she's only seen once: the day she told him where his parents were.

"I'm so sorry, Gran," he chokes. "I'll resign if you want me to. I knew -" Teddy lets out an uncharacteristic sniffle that makes Andromeda's heart ache, "- I knew you wouldn't be happy, but I hoped you'd . . . you'd be proud of me."

Andromeda clutches him to her, despite the fact that he is no longer the small boy who needed her so badly. But he does need her; he needs her to tell him that it's all right, that she isn't angry, but she feels none of these things. The only concept her mind can grasp is the desire to never let him go.

But she has to let him go. He's a man now, and there's an entire world of things he needs to learn by his own experience and not hers. She can't fall in love for him or cook his meals for him or face his demons for him once he has a life of his own. She may love him more than anyone else on the planet, but it is still his life.

Several minutes of uncomfortable silence pass before Teddy quietly says, "I'll go in tomorrow and resign."

He begins to loosen himself, but Andromeda puts her hand on his shoulder. "Wait."

When he looks at her, she can tell he doesn't understand, and she isn't sure she does, either. However, as the most important person in her life, he deserves the chance to plead his case before she dismisses his wishes. "You said Harry _almost_ denied your application. What changed his mind?"

"I asked him about my mum and dad." At Andromeda's sharp inhalation, Teddy holds her hands to his chest. "I'm alive and here because of them, because of what they gave up to make the world a safer place. Harry told me the same things you did, that I shouldn't risk their sacrifice by putting myself in danger, but that's bollocks, Gran."

"Language," Andromeda says out of habit.

Teddy blushes before he amends, "That's nonsense. They died so I could _live_, not just _exist_. What's the point in being alive if I'm too afraid to do the things I want to do and stand up for what I believe?" He squares his shoulders and speaks with a conviction Andromeda hasn't heard in many years. "My mum and dad wouldn't have liked that, and I don't think Granddad Ted would've, either."

Hearing Ted's name evoked wrenches at Andromeda, but Teddy knows his family's hearts almost as well as if he'd met them. Ted would've hated being shackled by guilt, and Dora would've loudly agreed with him. Whether he knows it or not, Teddy is so much like his mother and grandfather that at that moment, it's almost painful to look at him. "Oh, my sweet baby boy," she mutters as she kisses his forehead.

"I mean it, Gran. I'll quit if you want me to, I promise." The look on his face says that he's completely serious.

Andromeda has the perfect opportunity to put all of this to bed and sleep soundly at night, but the more she considers taking Teddy's offer to leave Auror training, the more bilious it feels in her throat. She can almost hear Ted's voice as he tells her to stop coddling the boy, just as he'd told her to stop being overprotective of Dora. But their daughter is dead; she isn't sure if she'd survive if the same thing happened to Teddy.

"Do you know what you're asking me to do?" Andromeda says, her voice quivering. "You're asking me to make you choose between your dream and my peace of mind. I can't do that to you."

Hope sparks in Teddy's eyes. "Does that mean . . ."

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Andromeda nods. "_Only_ if you're sure it's what you want."

The force of his enthusiastic embrace nearly knocks Andromeda off her feet. "I've never wanted anything more in my life. Thank you, Gran, thank you!" He plants a loud smack of a kiss on her cheek before he lets her go.

Still in a daze after the exchange, Andromeda is brought back to reality by the sound of clanking metal. When she looks over to investigate, Teddy is arranging cookware on the stove while cheerily waving his wand at the fridge. The roast she had put aside for the evening flew towards Teddy, who directs it into a large pot. She watches in awe as he neatly chops vegetables, and soon a wonderful aroma fills the room.

_When did he learn to cook? _Andromeda wonders to herself. Granted, he was underfoot as a child while she tried to prepare dinner, but this is almost a form of artistry. He's certainly putting more effort into it than she ever did, but the fact brings her happiness more than it exposes her shortcomings as a cook. She settles in with a fresh cup of tea and watches him work.

A while later, they sit down to a precisely-laid table, and Teddy solicitously carves Andromeda a slice of roast. For the first time, she approaches this venture with doubt.

Seeing it happen is one thing, but tasting it is another entirely. However, the eager anticipation on his face is something she can't ignore, so she severs a small section of meat with her fork and slowly bites into it. Her eyes pop open in surprise when the savoury flavour rushes into her mouth.

"This is excellent!" Andromeda exclaims, momentarily forgetting her own strict table etiquette. Finishing her mouthful, she asks, "Where on earth did you learn to cook?"

The shade of red on Teddy's face nearly matches his hair. "I . . . er, promise you won't get angry?"

Though the question begs further examination, Andromeda smiles and says, "Of course, I won't be angry."

Teddy breaths a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank Merlin. I, um, asked Mrs Weasley to show me some things. A few years ago, she started teaching me to cook when I'd go to family dos. She gets lonely sometimes with Mr Weasley out in his shed with his Muggle stuff, and all the kids are gone. Now, I go see her a couple times a week now to keep her company." Tentatively holding out a ladleful of steamed vegetables, Teddy adds, "I . . . wanted to be able to take care of you when I got old enough, because you've always taken care of me."

Watching as her grandson, who was crawling around in nappies it seems like only months ago, regard her with such deference makes Andromeda's heart feel fit to burst. She feels foolish for even questioning his life choices when he is clearly able to think things through on his own. Such a good boy. Such a very good boy.

"Well, I must thank Molly for her excellent work," Andromeda says with a nod. "And if your parents and granddad were here right now, I know without a doubt that they would be so, so proud of you." She saw Teddy bite his lip as his hair morphs from one colour to the next, unsure of which hue it wants to be. "And _I'm_ proud of you. You're all grown up, and it's incredible to see what a good boy - what a good _man_ - you are."

Andromeda feels a weight off her shoulders once those words finally surface. For the past eighteen years, she has done everything in her power to give Teddy the best she can give him, teach him right from wrong, and help him be the kind of person he would be proud to be later in life. She has not been perfect by any means, nor as loving and affectionate as she would have liked, but Teddy never got less than everything she had. He is a grown man, an adult by law and by temperament, but she never imagined what she would do when that day arrived. And now it has.

She feels like she should say something, but nothing comes to mind; instead, Andromeda allows a small measure of her boundless pride to saturate her voice as she asks him to pass the potatoes.


End file.
